


Reverie

by romantisch



Series: Blood and Sun [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23801824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantisch/pseuds/romantisch
Summary: The firstborn prince catches his eye, is all, and meets them head-on. It is strange how dizzying it is.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Blood and Sun [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714840
Kudos: 51





	Reverie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spidertams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidertams/gifts).



> a gift for @spidertams on IG! congratulations on hitting that halfway-to-100k milestone! I apologise beforehand for any mischaracterisations and general inaccuracies, the complexities of Tolkien lore often escape me :(.

i.

Ofttimes, he’d look upon the night sky and try to search for an inkling of himself there – just the tiniest piece of him, a fragment of his soul that isn’t owed to the Father of All, to the halls of Valinor, nor the here and now, the Woodland Realm and his uncle. A piece of him that is purely and entirely _his_ , a little wisp he can call his own, given by his father and mother, both lost to the world. If he could find it, perhaps he wouldn’t be just as lost.

There is certainly less than an abundance of red-haired elves frolicking about the cities of his kind, but that shortage isn’t shared _here_. Thereabouts, he’d glimpse visions of fire-kissed hair, tresses shining bright ginger or humming a deep, rich auburn. If he closes his eyes and stays still, letting the waters of civilisation sluice about him and huddle close to a crowd, he can affect the foreign sense of belonging; this comforts him as long as it goes, until it ends, until they notice the knifepoint edge to his ears and the way he towers above the dwarven folk scurrying about. Until they see the golden-red leaf crown nestled in his hair, in his uncle’s, in his cousin’s; only rarely does the company of leaves not lift that curtain of loneliness, and here, it’s rendered to a mere nuisance tickling the back of his ears and an unwelcome weight on his head. He reminds himself it will only get heavier; then a part of him notes he is starting to sound like Thranduil.

Thranduil and his son are smileless tonight, even moreso than usual, and as a result, Elion follows this standard. Of course, the King of the Woodland Realm has never quite moved past the thin line of his lips, and though Legolas maintains a steady smile, it is only for the sake of politeness and appearance. Otherwise, his elder cousin is pulled as taut as he is, all firm muscle and nerves. Legolas is taller still, and has learnt to keep his spine ramrod straight and shoulders drawn back for a good deal of time longer than Elion has – he does his best to perform an impression of his cousin’s posture, but the regal mien is lost on him. Among the sea of dwarves, he feels smaller.

They meet a procession of men and dwarves clad in both steel and silks in a grand domed building that shines gold and cream under a moonlit sky, and when Thranduil steps forward with his own retinue, Elion leans towards his cousin.

“Where’s the king gone?”

“The King under the Mountain?” Legolas mutters in reply, his eyes flicking to Elion fleetingly. “I’ve no clue. It is the Lord Girion we are here for.”

Elion frowns. “Wouldn’t the king be present for Lord Girion’s birthday?”

“He isn’t obligated to,” his cousin supplies, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. Elion realises he hasn’t given up his posture, and thus checks himself. “And Father is not much inclined to the Lord’s birthday feast. He’s much more interested in the King’s precious little gems and jewels. As you well know.”

“As I well do,” Elion murmurs, a little tightly, but if Legolas detects the bite in his words he does not show it. The tide of their retinue is shifting once more, and this time they are being led into the structure’s most impressive chamber; past the antechamber, and striding into the Great Hall, brimming with a mighty selection of humans and dwarves dressed in varying qualities of garb. Legolas marches with his chin high, a testament to the preternatural beauty of elves, torchlight glancing off of him like the sun. He allows the surrounding gawkers to see, let them know the ‘majesty’ of their kind – Elion only feels a thousand eyes pricking his skin like needles, burrowing deep and seeping.

The Lord of Dale is a jovial fellow, with a refreshing kind of jocularity that endears Elion to him summarily; he springs up from his seat to welcome them, yet this action only draws the eye to the character who remains rooted in his own great chair, gazing down at them with clouded eyes.

“Welcome, elves of Mirkwood! King Thranduil!” Girion promulgates with power in his voice, but no matter the might he channels into his words, the elves’ eyes still stray elsewhere. Elion isn’t gawking at the King under the Mountain, per se – he has been educated in etiquette thoroughly enough to not seem blatantly inattentive, thank you very much – but it is hard to pry his gaze from the sight of him. The dwarf king is old, with a mighty beard shot through with ashen grey and milky white, and eyes that perhaps once seemed kind. They are blue, but so are Thranduil’s, and Legolas’s – but for the vibrance of the Mountain King’s own blue, the look of them leave Elion’s veins icy.

Arrayed beside the dwarf King’s seat is a line of chairs of less grandeur, but no less resplendent, in the same manner that the chair meant for Thranduil also leads off to a line where Legolas and Elion would undoubtedly take up. It is for the King’s family, and the first thing that comes to mind is the King has plenty of family. His son Thrór sits askance, his own eyes clear unlike his father’s, and his children complete the line thereafter – there are three, Elion notes. Two sons and their sister, and all unfailingly unique in their manner.

The girl sits with a dignified poise to her, affecting mien like a Queen of Men would, but there is no denying the clear boredom astride her expression. The son to her right – the secondborn, if Elion is correct – is not affecting a smile more than his face is splitting with it, a positively radiant one that is a single step shy of a toothy grin. He looks as if he is enjoying himself, and the _why_ falls beyond Elion’s realm of reasoning.

It is when Elion moves to inspect the firstborn – the one with sable tresses, dark as anything – that he is caught in surprise for the first time since they arrived in the Northmen’s settlement. As to why this is, escapes him initially; the Lord is still booming words, observing the proper respect, and they are still stood unmoving in the centre of the Hall. There is no sudden thunder outside, no noisy chatter from the crowd, no voice that shocks him still.

The firstborn catches his eye, is all. And meets them head-on. It is strange how dizzying it is.

Amidst a sea of bodies and eyes all vying for a spot on Elion’s skin, none of them he has entertained with his own response; none of them has he acknowledged beyond superficial discomfort and vexation, none of them unexpected, all of them he meets with a tipped chin and eyes pointed straight ahead. He makes himself invisible, a thing to be looked at, a thing incapable of giving back a reaction.

And now as he looks, he is met back with a pair of eyes studying his own. It is him being replied to now, him who invaded with a look, and this time it is requited. Is it quite normal to suddenly be so aware of yourself, the blood coursing sluggishly in your veins, pounding in your ears, your feet shifting on the floor?

Dizzying.

His eyes are blue.

Elion does not look away. Briefly, the firstborn’s gaze drops but climbs back up the elf’s body in quick succession – Elion’s face becomes hot immediately, but he musters enough vigour to cautiously school his expression to blankness. When the dwarf’s eyes once more level with his, Elion reciprocates in kind and gives the firstborn a once-over. His garb is simple, for a prince, black leather and fabric trimmed with silver and the barest pieces of armour covering parts of his body where it matters. His knees, elbows, the broad expanse of his chest. Elion schools himself once more.

When their study of each other is concluded, Elion’s very being feels light when he notices the subtle quirk of the firstborn’s lips. A smile. For him.

Elion smiles back. It is the easiest thing.


End file.
